


And Beyond

by bwyn



Series: Afterlife [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, M/M, klance is bg because of the continuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12912195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn
Summary: It’s difficult to recall exactly what it was that made him choose, really, when he knows he didn’t have anything to go on. After the fact, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.Especially when he blinked and ended up surrounded by snow.Especially when from those drifting snowflakes came a man so steeped in nostalgia that Lance knew at once who he was.“I don’t regret a thing,” says Lance.





	And Beyond

Time passes oddly in the residence.

 

Well, it passes oddly in every space that Lance can currently exist. He doesn’t know dates, though there is night and day and a circadian rhythm his body has adapted to. He sleeps, but he doesn’t dream. Maybe it’s to make differentiating between work and downtime that much easier. He eats, but he doesn’t have to. There’s a certain joy in consuming. He desires, but he doesn’t need. 

 

The residence doesn’t seem to abide by any laws of physics or otherwise. It does what it wants, the architecture changing in sections from what Lance would consider fifties vintage to something out of a science fiction work and everything in between. His room, too, changes constantly. Yesterday it was all rich velvet, heavy drapes, and the sound of metal against metal—he suspects a blacksmith—coming from the window that provides a view of  _ beyond _ .

 

Beyond is sometimes snow capped mountains, other times it’s rolling hills and far off forests in colours Lance doesn’t think is possible. Today it’s trees whose canopies are hidden among the clouds, whose roots spread wider than the mountains of yesterday. It sort of matches the hanging terrariums and cottage aesthetic of Lance’s present bedroom. 

 

Lance thinks the residence and beyond change for the benefit of all the guides. There’s always something odd about them—Lance’s constellation freckles and shimmery hair a prime example. There’s more than that, though. Many of them just don’t share the same basic features as Lance.

 

He knows that’s because this plane of existence that all guides occupy transcends planets. 

 

The hallway is all gothic stone when he leaves his room to wander down to the canteen. Other guides are milling about, playing games, eating food both familiar and foreign. Lance knows some of them by name, but there are thousands. Tens of thousands. More, probably.

 

Lance wonders how often someone dies. He wonders if there’s a war going on, when there are less of a certain race roaming the patchwork halls. Lately, when the thoughts start to consume him and he begins to wonder about people he  _ knew _ and people he  _ misses _ and people he might have met, could have met, but chose differently, he finds Keith.

 

The only person he can think about, and let that strange unquestionable compulsion that comes with being a guide lead him to. Lance doesn’t know how common it is to guide someone from your life, nor does he know how common it is for it to be a lover, who ended up choosing to guide as well, but he can’t complain. Keith is a spot of familiarity that keeps that ever-creeping homesickness at bay.

 

Keith  _ is _ home.

 

Lance knows—like he knows a lot of things—that Keith is in the canteen. The hall is small today—only a few dozen strangers and a handful of familiar faces occupying the tables. Whenever the hall stretches to accommodate thousands, the ceiling soaring high accordingly, Lance decides he can nibble on chocolate chip cookies another time. 

 

He usually only gets halfway to the buffet table anyway, before—

 

Yep, there it is. The call.

 

Or the  _ tug _ rather, since that’s what it feels like. A sensation in his gut that compels him to move just so and—

 

Lance blinks and he’s standing in a cathedral. Sort of. Truth be told, he’ll never get used to the different worlds he ends up in. Some are dull, some feel normal, and some—the bridge, the reef, this cathedral—feel like he might be walking in a dream.

 

He supposes that this in-between, this purgatory, might as well be a dreamscape devised by his...clients? Guidees? Flock? Maybe he should ask what they’re called. 

 

Where there should be stone pillars stand the trunks of redwoods. Branches become arches in the vaulted ceiling, knots forming keystones. In place of stained glass windows there are overlapping leaves in emerald and bronze. In the cracks of the trees’ rippling bark oozes glowing sap. Lance wanders closer to take a peek. Nope, not sap—magma. He can smell the wood roasting, but there’s no smoke or flame. The pews are polished wood; the floor a carpet of moss. It’s soft beneath Lance’s feet. He wiggles his toes—barefoot this time then—and revels in the tickle. 

 

At the altar, where Lance expects a cross, is a triad of wrought iron spirals. It looks familiar, though he can’t place it. He walks between the pews until he reaches the design, tracing his fingers over the pockmarked metal. 

 

“‘Sup.”

 

Lance spins around, caught off-guard. There’s a young woman in the third row, eyes peering between two feet propped up on the back of the bench in front of her. Lance runs a hand through his hair in an attempt at nonchalance.

 

“So,” he says, gesturing at the cathedral. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

 

“Thanks.” She doesn’t get up. “Who’re you?”

 

“Oh, yeah, I’m your guide.” Lance grins wide, planting his hands on his hips. 

 

“Makes sense,” she sighs. “Damn, I messed up.”

 

Lance goes to join her on the bench. Mushrooms are growing on the lacquered armrest. “What d’you mean?”

 

“Well, I’m dead, for one,” she begins, uncurling a finger from her fist. Short tawny hair sticks out in numerous untamed cowlicks, curving into matching eyes. Thin sprouts grow tiny leaves that follow every wayward curl. She flicks up another finger. “I’m young. Which means I  _ died _ young. Waste of time.”

 

Lance blinks.  _ Oh yeah _ . He’s forgotten how many people he’s come across that lacked crows feet and laugh lines and greying hair. It didn’t seem odd anymore—just another person in need of guiding. 

 

“Who knows what happened,” shrugs Lance. “You don’t know whether you died because of an accident, on purpose, or saving a life.”

 

The woman tips her head back to address the canopy, baring a throat with faint green veins like a leaf. “I don’t very much feel like a hero. So you don’t know how it happened? To me?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Huh, I thought guides were supposed to.”

 

“Did you?”

 

“Yeah. I think. I guess?” She frowns. “I don’t know. It’s like… I  _ know _ some things. Like my name, but other things are...wispy.”

 

Lance smiled slightly at the iron spirals. He recalls that feeling, maybe. Mostly he remembers the sudden rush of it evaporating, like mist in the sun. 

 

“Well, whatever,” she says. “You’re my guide, yeah? Where am I being guided to?”

 

“Right.” Lance claps his hands together and swings his legs out into the aisle. “We’re going to find your doors.”

 

“Oh, goodie, one last decision to make or break me.” The woman follows Lance reluctantly to stand in the moss. 

 

“Nah, it’s not that bad,” says Lance reassuringly.

 

“I know,” she sighs. A pause. She blinks. “I don’t know how, though.”

 

Lance cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“I know it’s not that bad,” she clarifies, “but...this is definitely not familiar. So I…” She trails off, looks up at the ceiling once more, brow pinched. “Huh.”

 

That’s new. Lance doesn’t question it, however. He’s always learning something new with every world he appears in, every new person to guide. 

 

They wander up and down the aisles, circling the tree trunks, returning to the altar to peek around the spirals.

 

“D’you know what this is?” asks Lance, indicating the iron currently dappled with light filtering through a half-dome of foliage around the altar.

 

The woman glances at it. “Triskelion.”

 

“The hell is that?”

 

She quirks her eyebrow at him. “It’s a Celtic symbol.”

 

“What’s it doing in a cathedral?”

 

“Do cathedrals generally have trees for columns?”

 

“Fair point.”

 

“You’re the one that’s supposed to be answering  _ my _ questions,” she snorts. 

 

“Yeah, well,” says Lance, “I’m still learning.”

 

“Is there a possibility for my...whatever this is...to get mucked up ‘cause of bad guiding?”

 

Lance splutters an indignant laugh. “Excuse you! There is  _ not. _ It’s practically impossible.”

 

The woman rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue it. It’s not like she can switch out for another guide—or, well, Lance doesn’t actually know that, but it hasn’t happened yet!

 

They step off the altar and start looking around the hall that curves behind the half dome. The walls and ceiling have been replaced with a trellis covered thickly with blackberries. Lance nabs a couple off and pop them into his mouth. They taste like fake strawberries. He grabs a few more. These taste like pineapple.

 

“Found ‘em,” drawls the woman.

 

Lance looks away from the berries to where she stands by the apex of the curve. At first he doesn’t see anything but leaves and twigs, but when he stands beside her, he sees them. As usual, there’s three of them, set deep into the bushes so their edges are blurred by greenery. They’re not the most creative doors Lance has seen, as they’re all bordered in the same Celtic design in different woods, but they’re still objectively beautiful.

 

“Right,” says Lance, brushing juice-stained fingers on his clothes. “You’ve got three choices.”

 

“Right,” echoes the woman. “Afterlife, rebirth, work.”

 

“Yeah—wait, what?”

 

She blinks at him. “What?”

 

“I never...told you that.” Lance stares at her. That’s new, but there’s no feeling of having done anything inherently  _ wrong _ —his mouth isn’t clamping shut, his lungs aren’t aching for air—so this must be fine, right?

 

“Oh, well.” She shrugs, nonchalant. “I just figured.”

 

Lance can’t help but ask, “How do you figure  _ work? _ ”

 

“I just figured,” repeats the woman, “though I don’t know which is which.”

 

Lance wonders if it’s possible for someone to pass through a door before their guide even gets there. He thinks that if it  _ is _ possible, this one might’ve been the first to send Lance reeling about it. 

 

“O—kay, well. You’ve got rebirth here—” Lance points at the left mahogany door, the knowledge coming to him without question, “—work here—” the center door in pale oak, then dark walnut, “—and afterlife.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Lance feels compelled to add, “I chose work.”

 

She looks towards the oak door. None of them have door knobs, but she doesn’t seem perturbed by it. 

 

“You were in my position at one point, then,” she says.

 

“Yep.”

 

“What made you choose work?” asks the woman. “You’ve lived a life of work already, haven’t you? Why keep at it? Why not just...move on?”

 

Lance leans against the blackberry-infested trellis opposite the doors. “It’s just what drew me in. I was tempted by another, but…”

 

He remembers that rush of feeling, so strong and chaotic, enveloping him and whisking him away into a world that encompasses all others. He remembers  _ remembering _ , suddenly and uncontrollably, small things like the taste of sriracha and big things like his mother’s hugs—the things that make him up as a person, the imprints of experiences, the marks that people left behind on him. He can’t remember faces, or names, but he knows he had a best friend whose hugs reminded him of his mother, and he had a nephew who loved his piggy back rides best, and he had a lover.

 

It’s difficult to recall exactly what it was that made him choose, really, when he knows he didn’t have anything to go on. After the fact, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

 

Especially when he blinked and ended up surrounded by snow.

 

_ Especially _ when from those drifting snowflakes came a man so steeped in nostalgia that Lance knew at once who he was. 

 

“I don’t regret a thing,” says Lance.

 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” the woman snips, but she doesn’t seem actually annoyed about it, her head resolutely facing forward. 

 

“Being vague is part of the job description.”

 

She doesn’t reply. Lance collects a new handful of berries to eat. This isn’t the first time Lance has ended up just waiting for a decision to be made—no questions, no talking at all. Just the doors, a spirit, and a guide, currently occupying himself with figuring out the difference between the fake strawberry blackberries and the pineapple ones. After awhile, the woman sits down cross-legged. Her fingers trace against soft moss. Lance thinks they’re just meaningless circles, but then he recognizes the spirals.

 

Her eyes are sharp on the doors even as she murmurs almost absently, “Life, death...rebirth, huh?”

 

Lance opens his mouth to correct her, but it seems to him she isn’t really talking about the doors, so he snaps it shut. Sprouts curl around her ears. As Lance watches, a tiny blue flower blooms at the end of one. A second one spreads its petals, followed by another, and another, until there’s a small bouquet weaving itself in the woman’s hair. The flowers are familiar. Forget-me-nots. It almost feels like they’re demanding something of Lance.

 

“My name is Katrina.”

 

Lance startles and looks at her. She’s still facing the doors.

 

“Though I prefer Katie,” she continues. “I like numbers. Math. I love building with them, deconstructing with them, speaking with them. I’m good at it.”

 

As Lance watches, her shoulders rise as she inhales deep—steadying herself.

 

“There are people in my life I can’t remember, but I miss them.”

 

Lance knows that feeling.

 

“I wonder if they miss me.”

 

Lance wants to tell her that he misses her. He isn’t sure why.

 

“I can’t remember why, but there are things I regret.”

 

He wants to tell her that not everything has to be a burden she must carry.

 

“Lance,” she says, rising to her feet.

 

He never told her his name.

 

“It’s not familiar,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice, “but I expected it. I think...this isn’t the first life I’ve lived.” 

 

She looks over her shoulder at Lance, moisture in her eyes like pearls reflecting emerald light. 

 

“I think I want to give it another go. Thanks.”

 

Her hand touches mahogany. Something clenches in Lance’s chest, and he finds his hand reaching, his mouth forming a consonant with no end, “P—”

 

—and she’s gone.

 

Lance blinks, and the cathedral is gone, too.

 

When Lance returns to the everchanging patchwork quilt of a residence, he feels sad, and there’s an ache in his rib cage. He knows why, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. It’s not until a man with a dim glow beneath his skin and frost in his hair stops Lance with a concerned look that Lance realizes he’s crying. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> so i went to a cathedral today and this is all i could think about :>


End file.
